


I Told You I Was Ill

by DementedPixie



Series: Demented Pixie's Pros Fic [12]
Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-22 11:50:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22649542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DementedPixie/pseuds/DementedPixie
Summary: The boys share everything, even germs.PLEASE DO NOT RE-POST THIS STORY ON ANY OTHER PLATFORM.
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Series: Demented Pixie's Pros Fic [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1264832
Kudos: 16





	I Told You I Was Ill

**Author's Note:**

> My name is Demented Pixie and I’m a Pros fan, but that hasn’t always been my name. If you knew me as In Love With Both and you’re a friend, then you’ll already know why I left the fandom some years back. But, hey, a girl can change her mind, and I have therefore decided to re-share my Professionals fanfiction on this amazing Archive – no changes, no improvements, no alterations. I’ll be posting them just as they were written. No comments, no trolls, and no betas. Just me and my stories. I’m sharing them so that they can take their place in the archive, but I’m also sharing them for the Pros generation, for those future generations yet to discover Bodie and Doyle, and for Sandra, who has never ceased waving pompoms for all Pros fanfiction writers.  
> The following story was written by me in 2013.

I Told You I Was Ill  
By ILWB

Looking back, Christmas 1980 didn’t go quite as we’d planned. My first sign that anything was wrong was when I finally made it back to CI5 Headquarters in time for the traditional afternoon Christmas Eve raffle. George Cowley, in his infinite wisdom, didn’t like the idea of the select few getting gifts – some would say bribes – from our contacts. So there was a strict rule that any Christmas gifts be given to Betty who would then hoard them in a lockable filing cabinet until Christmas Eve. 

We all bought raffle tickets and, just before we were all sent home for the holidays, Mr Cowley would draw the raffle. I’d been tidying up a case where I’d had to deliver a witness to Heathrow Airport which believe me, on the day before Christmas, was no picnic. And so it was luck more than good judgement that meant I skidded to a halt inside the Squad Room just in time to catch the last part of the draw. 

“It’s a pink ticket,” rang out Mr Cowley’s voice to the room of attentive employees. “Number 127.”

There was the usual rumble of voices as tickets were checked and then a cheer as Murphy stepped forward. “Here, sir,” he said, waving his ticket. 

“A bottle of vodka,” said Mr Cowley, his voice somewhat disapproving as Murphy stuck his hand in the box to pull out the next ticket. 

I sidled up to Betty who was perched on the window sill, watching the fun. “Did I win anything?”

“Afraid not, 4-5,” she said, with a smile. “Not so far anyway. Bodie won a bottle of Rum, though. You’ll have to take it to him.”

Now that confused me. Bodie never missed the Christmas raffle – he was like a big kid over it.  
“Bodie’s not here?” I checked, scanning the room carefully. 

“Went home sick earlier.” 

What? I had to double check I’d heard her right. “Bodie?”

“Yes, Bodie,” said Betty, raising her eyes in frustration. 

“But Bodie’s never ill.”

“Well he is today.” She gestured towards the raffle. “And that’s the last item. Come on, I’ll get you that bottle of Rum.”

Somewhat bemused, I followed her across to the stash of goodies and took delivery of Bodie’s prize. 

“Sorry you didn’t win this year,” she said, with a smile, as she turned away to redistribute the other prizes. 

“You’ll be going off to see 3-7 now then?” came Mr Cowley’s voice, and I turned towards him, confusion still clear on my face. “Aye, I thought the same as you. He’s never ill, that one.”

“So it’s true?” I asked the one man I trusted not to lie to me over something like this. “Bodie really is ill?”

“It’s true. I sent him home myself earlier. Not that he wanted to go, of course. Stubborn fool. You’d best get over there, don’t you think?” With an almost paternal pat on my shoulder he urged me towards the door and, with a chorus of ‘Merry Christmas!’ echoing behind me, I suddenly found myself out in the corridor, apparently dismissed for the year. 

Still in a confused state I wandered down to the car park and, without even thinking about it, soon found myself on my way to Bodie’s flat. 

Bodie was ill? I scratched the side of my face, absent-mindedly. I couldn’t remember the last time my partner had been ill. He seemed to be always fit and healthy, fighting off any potential germs with his special mix of vodka and bouillon. There had been broken bones, naturally, plus the usual wide range of injuries inflicted upon him by others, but he never seemed to catch other people’s germs. Not sure what to expect I parked my car in a side street behind his flat and entered the communal lobby. 

Was I going to need my key? I pressed on the intercom, using our little code so he knew it was me. With no words needed there quickly came the buzz as he released the lock and I pushed open the internal door before leaping, two steps at a time, up to his flat. 

The door was open waiting for me and I closed it firmly behind me before setting the locks, then made my way into the lounge. 

Bodie was ill. They were all telling me the truth – it wasn’t some kind of Christmas wind up. My partner of thee years lay on the sofa wearing what looked like a polo neck jumper and a pullover on top, with a thick blanket pulled almost up to his neck. I plonked the Rum on the mantelpiece and perched on the edge of the sofa, nudging Bodie over with my hip to make a bit of room for me. Instinct kicked in and I suddenly found myself with my hand pressed against his forehead which, unsurprisingly, was burning hot. 

Sticky eyelashes fluttered half open. “Merry Christmas.”

I sighed. “You’re poorly then?” 

“Looks like it,” he croaked. “Best get out of here, mate. Wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy, least of all you.”

“And who’s going to look after you if I do that?”

“It’s Christmas, Ray. You’ve got places to go. People to see.”

“In case you’ve forgotten my place to go was here, and my people to see was you. So.”

“So?”

“So you just got yourself a nurse.”

Bodie groaned and tried to turn away from me. “Haven’t got the strength to argue,” he muttered, looking somewhat pitiful. 

“Good.” I said, happy to have won. “First things first. To bed with you.”

“I’m freezing, Ray,” complained Bodie. “And the only fire in the flat is in here.”

“You’re freezing?” This didn’t sound good. I put my hand on his forehead again. “You’re as hot as an oven, mate. And you don’t fit on this sofa, it’s not a good place to sleep. Come on, let me help you get to bed and I promise I’ll get the room warm, okay?”

“Can’t move.”

“Don’t give me that - you buzzed me in, didn’t you?” 

“Yeah, and that just about shot my bolt.”

“I’ll help you and I’m not taking no for an answer, so don’t even try.” At that I got up and went into the bedroom which, I have to admit, was like an icebox. What was wrong with the heating in this place? I fiddled with the dial on the radiator which immediately made reassuring and responsive gurgling noises before heat started to rise from the bottom upwards. Bodie had turned the radiator off? Well, no wonder it was cold! 

Not knowing how long my patient was going to be bed ridden I decided to change the sheets, a task that was completed in record time. Then I pulled out extra blankets from the ottoman and made the bed as cosy as possible. Now, for the patient.

When I got back into the lounge Bodie was dozing restlessly. I pulled off the blanket and flicked the side of his face with my finger. 

“Come on, Camille,” I said, knowing I was being cruel to be kind as I slipped my arm under and around Bodie’s back and forced him to a sitting position. 

“I,” he gasped, as he tried to get a weak grip on my shoulder, “am no Greta Garbo.”

“Maybe not,” I agreed as I finally got him standing, “but you’ve always reminded me of Robert Taylor. All that dark hair and blue eyes.” 

The distracting conversation got us the few feet from lounge to bedroom at which point Bodie, somewhat dramatically, threw himself down on the bed, gasping for breath. “She...died...didn’t she?” 

“Only after she found true love,” I conceded, as I knelt down to pull off the boots and trousers that his dangling legs were still clad in. 

“Oh God, Doyle, what are you doing now?”

“You’re not going to bed dressed, you’ll regret it.” And so I set about stripping my partner, still jabbering on about Camille as I did so. “She was all flouncy ribbons and lace, wasn’t she, not corduroy and polo necks. That’s it, sit up a minute, lean against me. Nearly done.” 

“Ray?” he asked, as he slumped against me while I removed his t-shirt.

“Hmmm?”

“Why is there a towel on my pillow?”

I blinked at him, taken aback for a moment. “Because you’re ill.”

“But why a towel?”

A flood of memories came rushing back to me as I realised what I’d done. “When I was little,” I started, not sure if I really wanted to share this but knowing there was no way out, “my Mum always stretched a towel across our pillow when we were poorly.”

“What does it do?” asked Bodie, evidently confused. 

“Makes you feel better, of course,” I explained. Surely everyone knew that? I looked at him closely for a minute, taking in his open expression of vulnerability and trust. Maybe Bodie didn’t. Maybe his Mum wasn’t there to put a towel on his pillow when he was sick. “Into bed with you,” I ordered, the subject closed. I was feeling sorry enough for him as it was, I couldn’t bear to think of him as an uncared for child on top of everything else. 

At last, and by now Bodie really had shot his bolt, we got him in bed, clad respectably enough in a pair of black cotton pyjamas that I found in the bottom of his wardrobe. The radiator was churning out enough heat to keep even Bodie happy and he buried himself under the covers. 

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked him over. It was gone 6pm on Christmas Eve and all the shops were shut for the next two days. I suspected there wasn’t so much as a headache tablet in the whole place, not to mention food and drink. It was time to get organised. 

“Sleep for a bit,” I said, checking his forehead again. “I’ll be back.”

“’Kay, Ray,” came the sleepy reply.

There are a lot of people out there who wouldn’t ever call my partner ‘sweet’, especially when he’s ripping their head off, shooting at them or being his very best menacing, dangerous and dark self. But at this very minute, dressed in his pyjamas, tucked up in bed with a fever, he really did look sweet. There’s no doubt about it. And he made me want to help him, whatever it took. 

Two hours of my life later that resolve had been severely tested. I organised a raid on my own fridge for food and drink, at the last minute remembering to grab my portable electric heater from the cupboard under the stairs just in case. Must keep the patient warm, after all. 

After trawling the West End I was unable to find a chemist open so I eventually ended up at Betty’s place, calming down her annoyed reaction with a graphic description of the invalid. She gave me Paracetamol, a bottle of Galloways, a thermometer and a spare hot water bottle. 

“Plenty of fluids,” she advised as I waved her goodbye. 

Then I dropped into Murphy’s to beg the loan of his camp bed and sleeping bag, knowing full well that I wouldn’t get any sleep on Bodie’s too short sofa. 

“Make sure he drinks lots,” said Murphy, slapping me on the back as I carried the kit down to the car. 

When I returned with my booty I was concerned to find that my patient was in quite a state. His hair was stuck wetly to his head, he had flung the covers off and was sleeping fitfully. 

I sighed. If I was going to be a nurse it was time to start acting the part. I made up the camp bed so that it ran along the end of the huge wooden monstrosity Bodie insisted on dragging from flat to flat. At least this way I could hear him if he needed me. Then I made us both a cup of tea and returned to sit on the edge of his bed, flicking his face with my finger again. 

“Come on, wake up. You need to take some tablets.”

“Go away,” mumbled Bodie, brushing my hand away with a waft of his arm. 

“No chance, now sit up.” I pushed my arm under his shoulders and forced him upright, quickly grabbing hold of a couple of pillows to prop him up against. “Right, now take these.” I pushed two paracetamol between his lips and offered him the cup of tea to wash them down with. Then I pulled the thermometer out of my pocket. 

He coughed a bit but drank the tea readily enough, before eyeing the thermometer with some suspicion. “And where do you think you’re going to stick that?”

“Only you would even suggest such a thing,” I replied, offended. “Now, open wide. Stick this under your tongue and keep it there.”

For two minutes my eyes drifted between my watch, pretending I was taking Bodie’s pulse when in reality I’d lost count five times, and silently observing my partner. Bodie really did bring out my protective instincts when he looked like this, all pale skin, dark eyes and bed hair. 

When the two minutes had elapsed I removed the thermometer and held it up to the bed side light. 

“Bloody hell, Bodie. It’s 103.”

“Told you I was ill.”

“Well actually, you didn’t. Everyone else did.” I got up and helped Bodie to settle back down under the covers. “I’ll get you a drink.”

“Just had tea, don’t want anything else,” came the petulant reply.

“You’ve got to keep taking fluids, everyone keeps saying so.”

“But anything I drink just seems to settle on my chest,” he complained. “It makes me wheeze.”

“You can’t have a temperature like this and not drink liquids,” I insisted, tucking him in. “I’ll get you that drink.”

By the time I returned he was fast asleep again and this time I didn’t have the heart to wake him. I made myself as comfortable as possible on the bunk and settled down for the night, hoping that whatever Bodie had, he would be over it by morning. Nobody deserved to wake up on Christmas morning with Flu. 

********

Christmas morning it may well be and the rest of the country were in the process of opening presents and over cooking turkeys, but there was no sign of the Christmas spirit in our particular part of the rainy capital. 

I woke up to Bodie coughing so hard he was retching and only just managed to get to him in time before he threw up into the waste paper bin which was the only thing close enough for me to grab. 

“Oh, Jesus,” he choked, throwing up liquid into the bin. “Sor...sorry...”

“Sorry? What the hell for?” I asked as I rubbed his back one handed while I held onto the bin with the other. 

“You don’t want to see this.”

“Don’t be daft,” I said, softly. “Finished?”

“Eurgh. Yeah.” Bodie collapsed back against his pillows while I took the bin to the bathroom to wash it. Then I foraged around in the kitchen until a found a more suitable bowl, which I brought back to the bedroom and placed on the floor. 

“For the next time,” I said. “Here, have a drink.”

“Can’t,” said Bodie, throwing his arm across his face to hide his eyes. “Makes me feel sick.”

“We need to get your temperature down, mate. You’re dehydrated. Come on, drink some.”

I poured him some fresh juice and offered the glass to his lips, encouraging him to take at least a sip. 

“Hate it, Ray,” he said, sipping at the cool liquid. “Makes my chest gurgle.”

My offer of “Think you can manage some breakfast?” resulted in a deep groan and a shake of his head, so I went to the kitchen to make myself some toast leaving Bodie to get another nap. I put the TV on low and settled down on the sofa to watch Scrooge, the old one with Alastair Sim, leaving the bedroom door open so I could hear Bodie if he needed me.

And it wasn’t long before he did. Half an hour later he called my name and I just made it to his side as he threw up water again, this time with perfect aim into the bowl. Poor sod. 

And so Christmas morning passed. I insisted on Bodie taking in more liquids and he kept throwing them back up again. Eventually I conceded, sitting on the side of the bed wiping his forehead with a cool flannel. “We need to dry you out.”

“Hmmm?”

“I hate to admit you’re right, but you need to stop drinking. Think you can handle a few hours of nil by mouth?”

“Whatever you think, Ray.”

“Okay, get comfy. That’s it. If you feel thirsty call me and I’ll monitor what you have. Hopefully we’ll be able to stop this cycle.”

“Okay.” Weakly, Bodie rolled to one side and I pulled the covers over him. After a coughing fit he finally settled down and I dragged a chair from the lounge to his bedside and made myself as comfortable as possible. 

There was no way I was going far from his side. 

*******

Throughout the afternoon I finally felt as though we were getting the best of the sickness. Bodie was sick twice more but each time didn’t drink any more fluids. It was hard for him – his temperature rose another point and I still wasn’t convinced this was the right course of action. But I dipped a clean cloth in cold water and kept his lips moist with it, as well as allowing small droplets of water to fall onto his tongue. 

One of the lowest points was mid afternoon when he began to hallucinate. 

“The cake’s poisoned,” he muttered, fluttering his eyelashes at me.

“Come again?”

“Don’t let her take it, it’s poisoned.”

“Okay, er... I’ll make sure.” I held his hand, trying to give him something to focus on.

“But I keep telling them, they won’t listen.”

“Bodie...”

“Why won’t they listen?” His grip moved from my hand to my forearm which he squeezed strongly for a few minutes, after which he flopped back again. 

He tossed and turned and sweated up a storm, and I wiped him down with another cool cloth and tried my best to lower his temperature, dishing out more paracetamol on regular intervals. And by tea time, the sickness had stopped. 

I allowed him small sips of juice and gradually he began to look slightly more comfortable. 

“Need the loo, Ray,” he said, shyly. 

“Come on, then.” I helped him out of bed, through the lounge and out to the bathroom in the corridor, trying not to get worried by how much he was leaning on me and how out of breath he was by the time we got there. “Manage by yourself?” I asked, prepared to help if necessary. 

“I’ll call you if I need you to hold it,” said Bodie, flashing me a grin as he pulled the door to. 

“Don’t lock it!” I called as the door closed. “Just in case.”

After a few minutes Bodie appeared back in the doorway and slipped his arm across my shoulders. 

“Bedroom,” he gasped, as we made our way back across the flat. By the time we arrived there he was a wreck and I carefully deposited him back on the bed, helping him to sink back into the pillows. 

“It’s like space dust,” he muttered.

“What are you on about, now?” I said, pouring him a fresh drink. Surely he wasn’t hallucinating again?

“My chest,” he said, weakly. “Sounds like space dust, or a coffee percolator. Listen.”

Realising he was quite lucid for a change I leaned down and pressed my ear against his chest, not expecting to be able to hear anything. But yes, it was clearly audible. Every intake of breath resulted in a gurgling wheeze that sounded like milk being poured onto Rice Crispies. 

“Bloody hell,” I said, sitting upright again. 

“It’s not right, is it?” he asked, looking to me for answers I wasn’t sure I had.

“Sounds like a chest infection.”

“Or Pneumonia.”

Now that was one word I didn’t want to contemplate, not over a Bank Holiday when all the Doctors and Chemists were closed. And there was no way Bodie was up to a trip to A and E. Keep him warm and try to keep his temperature down – that was my mantra. And if I had to, I’d call the on duty CI5 Doctor and stuff the fact that’s it’s a Bank Holiday. 

That was my plan and as we both settled down for our second night, I thought it quite a good one. 

********

As Boxing Day dawned to the sound of Bodie’s coughing I was spurred out of my bunk by a new sound from my patient – the sound of pain. 

“What’s wrong?” I said, running my hand through my hair as I stood in the centre of room, swaying slightly. 

“Can’t lie down,” Bodie ground the words out. 

“Well you’ve been doing a bloody good impression of someone who can.” Unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice I felt instantly contrite when I saw his face drop. “Sorry,” I said, moving across to sit on the edge of his bed. “You know I’m moody when I’ve only just woken up. What’s happened?”

“It’s my back, think I pulled a muscle coughing. Hurts like hell to lie down.”

“You’re kidding?”

“It was turning into the one thing I was really good at, too, lying down. Now I can’t even do that.”

“Roll over.”

“Eh?”

“Carefully, go on. Let me give you a rub, see where the problem is.”

Very slowly, Bodie rolled over onto his front, coughing as he did so. I reached out and started to tenderly massage him through his pyjama top, trying to find the source of the pain. It didn’t take long to find it. 

“There, ouch! There.”

“Hmm... Think it’s the muscle over one of your left ribs,” I decided, exploring carefully. “That’s the side you’ve been favouring when you sleep, and the side the noise was worse on. Is there any position that’s more comfortable?”

“Don’t know,” came the miserable reply. “Just feels like the last straw.”

“Hang on.” I went back to Bodie’s old ottoman (which I had always wondered about as it seemed to be the nearest thing Bodie had to a family heirloom) and pulled out another blanket which I rolled up. With some careful manoeuvring we somehow found a position that was relatively easy on him, with Bodie half propped up on pillows and the rolled up blanket pushed along his left side. 

“That’s it,” I said, standing back to look at my handiwork. “Try to sleep, I’ll be back.”

If Bodie felt like this was the final straw then I heartily agreed with him. I put the kettle on and reached for the phone. The CI5 medical team were just a phone call away and Bodie needed them! 

*******

“This is so embarrassing,” said Bodie, as he watched Doctor Curtis lay his equipment out on the bed. 

“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” said Doctor Curtis. “A man can’t help being ill.”

“But I haven’t had to call a Doctor out since I was eight and came down with chicken pox.”

So there had been somebody at home who cared about him. The thought reassured me a little as I leaned against the doorframe with my arms folded, watching something I never thought I’d see – my partner doing what he was told by a Doctor. Blood pressure and pulse were efficiently taken and then came the moment of truth. Silence fell on the room as the Doctor listened to Bodie’s chest, his requests for deep breaths being punctuated by Bodie trying to control his coughing enough to comply, until eventually the Doctor had heard enough. 

“Influenza and a chest infection, heavy on the left side. There’ll be nothing open today where you can fill a prescription but luckily I can dispense drugs through CI5. And, so...” He rummaged in his bag and produced two bottles which he put on the bedside table. “Antibiotics three times a day – make sure you eat otherwise they’ll make you feel sick. Muscle relaxant for the back. And keep up with the Paracetamol to try to get the fever under control.”

Bodie lay back against the pillows, relief clear on his face. “Thanks, Doc.”

I have to say I felt just as relieved as my partner looked. “Thanks for coming out to him, especially today,” I said. “Let me see you out.”

As we walked to the door Doctor Curtis paused for a moment. “Keep him warm and don’t let him do too much, not that he’ll want to anyway.” I nodded and unlocked the door. “He’s lucky to have you,” was his final comment as we shook hands and he went on his way. 

There was only one thing for an invalid who has to eat in order to take tablets - my home-made veggie soup. Decision made, off I went to the kitchen. 

********

I tried my best to do all the right things for my poorly partner; made him soup, brought him medicine and drinks, kept him warm and checked his temperature. And slowly, throughout Boxing Day afternoon, he seemed to rally a little. 

“Aren’t you bored, Ray?” he asked, looking across at the chair where I was sat reading. 

“Playing Nursey, aren’t I?” I replied. “Plenty for me to do.”

“Well, I’m bored.”

I put the book down and leaned forward a little to look more closely at him. “If you’re bored that must mean you’re feeling better.”

“A bit,” he admitted. 

“Need anything?” An idea came to me. “Feel up to a bath? You’ve been in those PJs for two days.”

I watched as a conflict of emotions played across his face – enthusiasm for the idea and embarrassment that he didn’t have the strength to manage for himself. “I dunno,” he muttered, looking down at the sheets. 

“I’ll help you and I’m sure you’ll feel better after.” I stood up. “I’ll go run the bath, you just sit here and relax a minute. Okay?”

He nodded in reply and I made my way to the bathroom to fulfil my hidden promise – to help my partner take a bath without making him feel weak. 

******

In the end, despite my reassurances and confidence, it was harder than I’d been expecting. Despite a slow walk to the bathroom and a sit on the closed toilet seat while I helped him take his pyjamas off, Bodie was as weak as a newborn kitten and could hardly get into the tub. He put all his weight on my shoulders as he stepped in and slowly sat down in the water but as he tried to settle, every wheeze, cough and involuntary inhalation hurt his pulled back muscle. I rubbed his back with the flannel, trying to get him to calm down until, eventually, he stopped coughing and lay back in the water, his eyes closed. 

“Don’t go away,” he muttered, not even having the strength to open his eyes. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied, seating myself on the toilet seat. “We can’t have you drowning. I haven’t finished my life savers badge so I’m not qualified to give you mouth to mouth.”

That got one eye open. “Thought you were a boy scout?”

“Nah, remember? I took dancing lessons.”

Unfortunately, Bodie’s laugh brought on another coughing fit. I soaked the flannel in the hot water then wrung it out. 

“Lay back,” I instructed, waiting for him to comply before I carefully draped the hot flannel over his face. “Might ease your chest a bit.”

Silence fell upon the room as Bodie breathed through the heat of the flannel. It seemed to be helping a little so I removed it, re-soaked it in the hot water and replaced it again. 

“Want me to wash your hair?” I asked, seeing how most of the back was wet already. 

He pulled the flannel off his face. “Don’t want to go to bed with wet hair.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll sort it.”

“S’pose it’ll be easier than drying your mop.”

“Thought you liked my mop!” I dipped my hand in the water to retrieve the flannel. “Come on, let me play nurse again.”

“What?” Horrified, Bodie drew his knees up in the water to cover himself. 

“It’s hardly worth playing the innocent maiden, mate,” I said, soaping up the flannel. “I’ve already seen all you’ve got and the state you’re in there’s no way you’re going to be able to manage to wash yourself.”

A hand reached out and grabbed the flannel, immediately going to work. Maybe he was feeling better, after all. 

I grinned at him. 

In the end I did wash his hair for him, because every time he lay down to rinse it he ended up coughing. And then I helped him back out of the bath, dried him carefully with a warm towel, pulled his bathrobe around him and half carried him slowly back to bed. He sat on the bed obediently while I gently towel dried his hair, running a comb through it until it shone. 

We got a bit stuck when we got to clothing because he’d already been through his one and only ‘Hospital’ pair of pyjamas but I found him a t-shirt and a pair of track suit bottoms to put on before getting him comfortable in bed and tucking the bedclothes around him. 

He lay back on the pillows and looked at me, real gratitude in his eyes. It made me feel a bit awkward, to be honest. I didn’t want his thanks. Before he could say the words and before I could think about it too much I stopped him from speaking - the only way I knew how.

The world stopped. 

“You kissed me,” he said, his voice dull. He blinked at me, twice. 

“I did, yeah,” I replied.

“But I’ve got flu.”

“Is that your only objection?” Damn. I didn’t mean to say it quite like that. 

“You...?”

“Love you. Yeah.” I didn’t mean to say that either, but somehow the time just seemed right. I got stunned silence in return. I stood up, annoyed with myself and him. “Oh, come on, Bodie,” I said, walking to the window and turning away from him to look out of it. “I’ve just spent my Christmas holidays looking after you when you’ve got enough germs to sink the KGB. Of course I bloody love you. Why else would I be here?”

Again there was silence and I started to feel hot and uncomfortable. I pressed my hot forehead against the cool window knowing that I’d blown it. Maybe I could put it all down to his hallucinations, pretend it hadn’t happened. I suppose if he didn’t buy that I could always suggest he partner Murphy. My own options were a bit limited in that area but maybe it was time to move on anyway...

And then I felt strong arms go around my waist and a wheezing chest press against my back. 

“You daft bugger,” he murmured, kissing the back of my neck through the curls. 

“Yeah, well. It needed saying.” Could I sound less romantic? I closed my eyes in despair. 

“Come to bed with me.”

I so wished I’d been looking at his face when he’d said those words. I turned in his embrace, suddenly aware of my pounding head and dry throat. And the penny finally dropped. 

“Actually, Bodie, love,” I said, croakily. “I don’t feel too well.”


End file.
